John Hart - Iron House

“I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

He told her.

“Your mother?” He nodded, and Victorine pictured lily hands and white skin, servants and bankers and beds that were feather soft. She thought of her own hard years, of beatings and loneliness and a crazy mother who whored herself out to any man with fifty dollars and a truck strong enough to force its way up the road that led to her bed. “I know how to handle your mother.”

Light flickered, and a moment passed.

“Do you know why I love you?” he asked.

She rocked him, silent, and he asked again.

“You know why?”

“I know,” she said.

And, she did. It wasn’t her looks or her brains or her fine, hard body. Julian loved her for one reason.

“You’re so strong,” he said.

And that was it.

The helicopter circled the far side of the estate and came in where the reporters couldn’t see it. Treetops thrashed as it slowed, then an opening appeared below the skids and Abigail saw the hard, sharp edge of the helipad. It was lit. Cars in the darkness beyond. When the pilot made his final adjustment and the skids scraped concrete, Abigail unfastened her harness.

Her anger had grown as dark, broken countryside flicked past outside her window. She knew it was unfair and fed largely by fear, but the smell of her husband made her furious. His self-interest. His calculation. Outside, blades ripped the air into vicious downdrafts; engine noise like a rockslide. Abigail was at the first car when a hand landed on her shoulder. She spun and found her husband.

“Think about what I said.”

He had to yell, white hair aflutter on his large head.

Abigail raised her voice to match. “No. You think about what I said.”

He looked at the long, black car. Two members of his private security stood waiting. Beside the car, the Land Rover looked worn and old in a way that seemed to insult him. “I assume you’d prefer to ride with Jessup.” He said it with wounded pride and a need to hurt.

“We have things to discuss,” Abigail said.

“Will I see you in the morning, then?”

The leer spread on his face, and Abigail’s anger kicked up a notch. She strove to be civil with her husband, but was only so strong. “I’ve never cheated on you. Whatever you choose to believe, I would never do that.”

“Please…”

“We’re different that way.”

“I’ve told you before that we can all use distractions, but, don’t insult my intelligence. Screw him all you want, but be honest about it.”

She shook her head. “I chose a long time ago the kind of person I wished to be.”

“You’re absurd, sometimes. Do you know that?”

She wanted a clever retort but had nothing, so what came out was simple and plain. “Were you ever a moral man?”

“Morality is a relative concept. You, of all people, should know that.” He settled into the car, and when his window came down, he said, “Tomorrow morning, first thing. I need an answer to my question.”

Jessup materialized beside her as the senator’s window slid up and the car eased into motion.

“You okay?”

“In the car.”

They got in and the doors closed as the helicopter engine finally died. The silence was shocking, Jessup’s voice equally so. “What the hell’s going on, Abigail? You leave without telling me, take off with a man you barely know, a dangerous man, a goddamn gangster…”

But she had thoughts only for Julian, and waved him off angrily. “You’ve checked local motels? The friends we know of?”

“Of course.”

“The grounds?”

“All four thousand acres? No. Of course not.”

“He’s with Victorine Gautreaux-”

“We don’t know that.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Jessup. It’s the only explanation. That little bitch has got her claws in him. We need to search Caravel’s place.”

“Already done.”

“She allowed it?”

“For a five thousand dollar cash payment. We checked every inch. She sat on the porch the whole time, counting her money and laughing at us. Julian was not there. Victorine, either. By the time we left, the police were there.”

“Police?”

“Jacobsen and some other detective. I don’t know what they wanted.”

Abigail shook her head. “Ronnie Saints. George Nichols.” She felt herself staring. The windshield was a blur; outside was a blur.

“Don’t even go there, Abigail.”

“I’m frightened, Jessup.”

“There’s nothing here we can’t handle.”

Abigail scrubbed her face with both hands, then said, “I know who those dead men are. Ronnie Saints. George Nichols. Dear God, help me, I know who they are. But I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You don’t have to. Okay. Just take a breath. I’ll take care of this.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“Just start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

She explained where she and Michael had gone and what they learned. “The list was at Ronnie Saints’s house. George Nichols’s name was on the list. So were Billy Walker and Chase Johnson.”

“That’s why you were at Iron House?”

“To talk to Andrew Flint. Michael thought he might know something.”

“But you didn’t see Flint?”

“No.” She bit the edge of a finger, thinking about the lake. “There’s a third body they’ve not yet identified, the second one out of the water, the one that was all bones.” The finger came away from her mouth. “What if it’s Billy Walker or Chase Johnson? It can’t be coincidence. Oh God, Jessup, what if there’s another body in that lake? What if they’re all dead? What is happening here?”

“Julian did not kill those men.” Jessup was firm. “You have to believe that. No matter what, he needs you to believe that.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But why, Jessup? Even the senator struggles and fails.”

“I love him because you do.”

Abigail touched his cheek. “Thank you for that, Jessup. Thank you so very much.” Jessup leaned into her touch and she said, “Does the name Salina Slaughter mean anything to you?”

He drew his face back. “Why would you ask that?”

“The name was on the list.”

Jessup shook his head. “No.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes. But, look. I have a question of my own.”

“Okay.”

“How do you feel about Michael?”

“It’s complicated. Why?”

“The senator has been asking about him. He’s mentioned him to the cops. His men are digging for background. They want to know everything. Who he is. Where he’s from. Everything. They want to track him. They want to find his girlfriend. They’re building a file.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think your husband is looking for a scapegoat.”

She saw it, then, how it could play. “Someone to blame for the murders.”

“It’s how the senator thinks. Michael is an outsider.”

She sat up straighter. “You haven’t told my husband what we know, have you? You haven’t told him about Otto Kaitlin, about the things you found in Michael’s car-the cash, the photos, the gun? Jesus. You didn’t give him Michael’s gun.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Not yet. What are you saying?”

He shrugged, unmoved. “I’m saying it might not be a bad idea.”

Jimmy was waiting on the front porch when Stevan finally decided to show up. It was late, most of the men either racked out or playing cards. A subtle anger filled the house, a whiff of mutiny. There was no air-conditioning. The only television had a hole, dead center. But it was more than that. Every man inside was an earner. They didn’t have Stevan’s millions or Jimmy’s plans. They had their turf, their hard-won, blood-soaked piece of the American dream, and Stevan was screwing that up-and for what? They should have killed Michael days ago. They should have never let him out of the city. Now, they felt cut off and exposed.